Twenty Four Seven
by itsfaberrytaboo
Summary: With a Tony, Grammy, and an Oscar nomination under her belt, Rachel Berry is a star on the rise, and in love. But sometimes, falling in love in Hollywood involves more than just two people. Also includes Pusse. Secret relationship. AU, D/s. Not a D/s universe. #Soon
1. Chapter 1

_Present day - Sunday, February 24 _

"Rachel! Rachel, this way, Rachel!"

Pivot. Hand on hip, elbow jutted out. Glance over shoulder, gaze just beyond the flashes of light, eyelids lowered.

Sultry girl next door.

Saint in the streets, sinner between the sheets.

"Perfect, Rach, thank you!"

It was always ironic, she thought, how they called her "Rach." As if they were talking to their best friend, snapping pictures of her for their scrapbooks.

Rachel Berry smiled and waved, turning away as she slipped her hand through her date's arm.

Hollywood and Highland loomed in front of her, brilliant in sun and red carpet.

"And once again, you steal my scene."

She chuckled and patted his arm with her other hand as he steered her toward the microphone.

"Well, you _are_ a _supporting_ actor nominee."

"I hope you lose."

She couldn't help but laugh out loud as Jesse winked, releasing her hand and stepping back once they'd reached the reporter.

"And here we have the one and only Rachel Berry," she said, drawing her into frame. Rachel tried not to stare at her reflection in the lens of the camera now inches from her face.

"Nominated as best actress in a leading role, for her portrayal of Annabeth in the adaptation of Joan Holmes' novel Higher Ground. Such a great night for you, and you look absolutely gorgeous."

Rachel pasted on her smile and nodded. "Thank you so much, isn't this exciting? It seems like all of California is here!"

She waved to the crowd, her smile growing genuine and wider when she heard her name called by more than just the paparazzi.

She hoped her dads were enjoying this. She hoped her Daddy wasn't crying; he tended to do that.

"So, the big question of the night – who are you wearing?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Rachel said with a giggle, gesturing to her deep blue, thousands-dollar dress with its plunging neckline. "It's a Beauchene."

She still couldn't believe that she had people who _wanted_ her to wear their clothes.

Middle of February, and she could wear a dress that if she wasn't careful, she'd pop out of. She didn't think she'd ever get used to not having a freezing Lima, Ohio winter. She wondered if Kurt, watching her from at home in New York, approved of her dress. She'd have a text message verdict later, she knew. It was a long way from sweaters and argyle knee socks.

She was a long way from Rachel Barbra Berry of WMHS. Twenty-eight years old, a little thinner in figure, a little stronger in common sense, a little more jaded in love.

An apartment near the beach, a Grammy and a Tony on the mantel, a nice car in the garage. A reason to come home.

Cameras on speed dial.

"Well, you look nothing less than stunning. And the bling?"

"Oh, Schwarz, definitely Schwarz," Rachel answered, hand immediately flying to the necklace at her throat. There would be hell to pay if she happened to lose the loaners. The best actress last year had "misplaced" her earrings; the rags had had a field day with that, for the next month.

"Aren't they beautiful? I feel like a princess!"

"You are," Jesse interjected, his smile beaming, and Rachel smirked at him.

He really couldn't handle not being the center of attention.

"Oh, he's just the sweetest," the reporter gushed.

"Isn't he though?" Rachel said. "Always such a gentleman."

"Let's talk about Annabeth," Nancy said, and immediately the smile fell from Rachel's face as she nodded.

Serious time.

"You've received a lot of buzz; you've gotten rave reviews, a Golden Globe, and now an Oscar nom for playing a teenager struggling with drug addiction. But you're a small town girl from Ohio, how'd you pull it off?"

Rachel continued to nod as she considered her answer. "Well, I may be a small town girl from Ohio, but I know my way around crackhouses. Inactive ones, of course!" Catching Nancy's stunned look, Rachel let out a laugh. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

She and Sunshine could joke about it, now.

"Research," Rachel said, knowing that Jesse was probably resisting the urge to drag her away and save her from herself. "Endless research, and talking to Ms. Holmes, who's had experience, you know, of course. I tried to tap into that desperation, that confusion."

"It must have been very emotionally draining, how did you maintain your sanity?"

Rachel glanced down at her feet, a softer smile crossing over her face, before looking back up into the camera.

"Hot baths work wonders."

"Hot baths?" Jesse asked her as he escorted her toward the building. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

Catching the cameras again, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Rachel's, briefly, then ushered her inside.

"I hope you trip up the stairs on your way to accept your award."

"I hope a tall person sits in front of you."

She was nervous. She'd been to the Grammys, she'd been to the Tonys, and she'd won at both. But this was the Oscars, and this was her _first time_ at the Oscars. She was trembling with excitement as Jesse pointed her to their seats, and they slid in after stopping to talk to their various castmates.

"It's so big," she whispered, glancing at their surroundings.

"That's what she—"

"Jesse."

He smiled at her. "Feeling like a little fish in a big pond?"

She did. She'd always known she'd make it here. She'd always known, from the time that she was four years old, that her life would be surrounded by stages and plush seats, tables with expensive linens and sparkling champagne. Flashing lights and people screaming for her to notice them.

This is what she had held onto as she was growing up that small town girl in Lima, Ohio. The dream that she cradled when the queen bee of William McKinley High School would stalk up to her, a slushie cup cradled in her hands. The strains of Don't Rain On My Parade would always war with the sounds of laughter. She would stare into the mirror in the bathroom, watching the syrup drip, as she dreamed of staring into a lighted mirror while the stylist would fix her hair for her next scene.

When she was eighteen years old, a train had taken her the first miles towards her dream. She'd cried the entire way, both loving and hating the boy who had chosen to show his love by making the decision for her. They had tried to make it work, but there had been classes to go to, showcases to perform, and auditions to be rejected. Eventually it had fizzled out, and though Rachel was glad she and Finn Hudson were still on good terms, she was also glad that they were over.

New York had been everything Rachel had expected, and nothing that she'd expected. Kurt was a welcome face after the first semester, and she'd been saved from a roommate who had thought NYADA was a place solely to find sexual partners by Kurt getting them both an apartment. New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts had given her a crash course in voice training, dance, and how to deal with an instructor who thought she was just a hick from the backwoods. The little girl who had cried in the bathroom every time Santana Lopez had thrown a slushie at her walked out of NYADA a woman who shrugged off rejections from producers that included "encouragement" to fix her nose and drop a pound or two.

She punched the guy who suggested she bleach her skin. Luckily he'd refused to press charges.

It was hard at first to find her footing in the Broadway scene. There were roles in shows that were so Off-Broadway they might as well have been back at the Lima Theatre. She'd supplemented her meager earnings with a job at a coffee shop, which let her live adequately, if not comfortably or richly. The roles were steady, at least, but there were more than a few times when Rachel would sit up late at night with Kurt, tears trickling down her cheeks as she wondered when her star would ever rise, or if the Broadway lights were destined to remain permanently turned off for her.

And then, three years ago, Jesse St. James had floated into her life like a colorful, multi-talented balloon tossed on the breeze, when they were both cast in an Off-Broadway production and originated the roles that eventually sent them to the Nederlander. Jesse was brash, bold, and a complete thorn in Rachel's side caused by being matched measure for measure in terms of looks, intelligence, and talent. A young man with a booming voice who spent more time perfecting the curls that fell into his eyes instead of the notes that fell into a song, it hadn't taken long for Jesse to ingratiate himself into Rachel's life.

And for the press to take notice.

It had all worked out according to plan. Maybe not _Rachel's_ plan, but it was a plan, nonetheless.

What had followed their opening at the Nederlander had been a tornado of Ozian proportions. Every performance of _Brand New Story_ was a sell-out, souvenirs kept flying off the shelves, and every Broadway insider wrote of the "sizzling chemistry between the muscled Jesse St. James and his leading lady, the sexy pixie Rachel Berry."

She wasn't sure pixie was the right word for her, but everything was fitting as easily as two puzzle pieces in the palm of her hand.

Rachel had left the musical early, after her Tony win, so that she could work on a solo album. It wasn't her best work, she knew that; it was marketed towards the fans of Brand New Story, young girls who had grown up teething on pop and sugar-coated lyrics, songs about the boy next door and fast, racing dance anthems. She'd always dreamed of producing an album of musical standards, the soaring ballads and cheeky melodies of _her_ youth, but instead she was grinding her hips in a video, her hair streaked in wild colors as she sang about lust and cheating.

The album had taken off, Rachel had won a Grammy for Best New Artist, and Jesse St. James was photographed sitting behind her as she rose to accept her award, hands clasped in front of him and his face beaming with pride.

They started out simply. They would be walking together, and then Jesse would see the camera and he'd smile as his arm slipped around Rachel. Sometimes she'd scowl, because who was actually ever happy to see the paparazzi? But most of the time she'd smile or stare up at him adoringly. His grey blue eyes would twinkle with amusement.

Gradually the twinkle in his eyes gave way, one week in December, to a soft kiss on her lips.

Apparently the internet had exploded.

She liked Jesse. She liked Jesse and her dads were happy when Jesse and Rachel had surprised them during a vacation. It was the quintessential "boyfriend meets the family" visit, and it didn't matter if the family was a little non-traditional. It had cause a little bit of a buzz, when the news broke that Rachel Berry, budding new Broadway star, had two gay fathers. Hiram and Leroy were suddenly thrust into the spotlight, but after a disastrous interview with Hollywood Confidential where Hiram had actually pinched Leroy's butt on camera (resulting in Rachel giving them the cellphone equivalent of a Howler at 3 o'clock in the morning) the interest had faded. It wasn't, after all, the fifties anymore, and it was _Broadway_. So the Berry daddy stars had faded, but Rachel's continued to grow even brighter.

Her role in the movie had come about as a sort of fluke; there'd been one before, but there were better, more famous names attached to it and Rachel had disappeared into the background. Still, the movie had spent a week in the theaters and gone straight to DVD, and Rachel began to look at making a return to Broadway at the ripe old age of 27. But apparently the fates had been watching Last Night in Vegas, because Joan Holmes had caught her performance and thought "She'd be perfect for Annabeth."

How she got that from five lines of actual dialogue, one slightly-too-raunchy sex scene, and a crappy Warren-esque theme song, Rachel would never know, but she would be eternally grateful for it.

"I don't really feel like the fish," Rachel said to Jesse. "I feel more like the bait."

It didn't matter if she'd been born for this, if it was what she had conditioned herself to achieve from the time she was able to sing Row Row Row Your Boat in the bathtub. It didn't matter if she'd had her name on a marquee, her name on the cover of an album. Her name inside the envelope, etched into glass.

At the end of the day she was Rachel Berry, a girl who still loved argyle and too much coffee. At the end of the day, she held the memories close of being called a sad clown hooker, manhands and treasure trail.

At the end of the day, she would slip into bed and run her fingers through softness while waiting for the sharks to call.

"You're not the bait," Jesse said, nudging her with his shoulder. "You're too loud for that."

Rachel snorted, fingers lazily tracing the ring on her right hand. Four simple diamonds encircling a silver band, she'd find herself playing with it every time she wore it – yet another gesture that hadn't gone unnoticed.

All around Rachel were the stars she had grown up with, and some she'd just recently discovered. Fine ladies with Dame before their name; gentlemen who at the age of seventy still made her dad swoon. The sixteen year old with more skin than dress, the asshole who ought to be in front of a jury instead of the cameras. She had their autographs, their movies, she had that guy's phone number from where he'd rear-ended her last car on the way to the grocery store.

She suspected he'd done it on purpose.

The host was a curious mix of false bravado and stumbling awkwardness. Luckily most of his jokes hit their mark rather than falling flat, even though Rachel suspected she'd be on the tabloids in the morning for glowering at him when he'd made a crack about her height. It seemed that some things never changed, whether you were in Lima, on the Great White Way, or in Hollywood.

Jesse won.

He bounced out of his seat with a fist bump, and she rose to the occasion to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, smiling and pretending to brush away a proud tear before sticking her tongue out at him. Childish, perhaps, left over from her melodramatic days, but he simply winked at her as he took the steps two at a time.

Hefting the award in his hands, he laughed as he approached the microphone.

"Well, Rach, I didn't trip, sorry to disappoint you, babe."

She chuckled and waved him away.

"Wow, this is, this is really, really cool. Okay, 30 seconds before the music starts, let's see. Um, thanks to, of course, all the great people, the cast and crew of Hatter. Um, John and Bob, you guys are fantastic; Alison, you are my hero. Erica, David, Sugar, Matt, oh god I'm going to forget somebody… Grant! Grant, my hairdresser, you are a god among men and—oh yeah, the lighting guy, the lighting guy who always makes sure the spotlight is on my good side! You're amazing and I love you with all of my heart. Thank you, thank you all so much!"

Rachel tried not to be nervous when her category came up, tried to quell the butterflies of apprehension, but regardless of everything _else_ going through her head, this was her first Oscar nomination, and if she won she'd be one award closer to her EGOT. Maybe she'd mail the envelope to Will Schuester. He was still the glee club instructor at WMHS.

They hadn't won a competition in the last three years.

She smiled and waved, mouthing "Hi daddies!" when the camera panned to her as one of her scenes from Higher Bound was played, Annabeth going through her first night of withdrawal. She whispered "Thank you" for the raucous applause, for the pat on her shoulder given by the director, sat behind her. Jesse held her hand, and Rachel reminded herself to keep the smile on her face, no matter what name—

"And the Oscar goes to…. Eliza Atwell!"

—was called.

The disappointment was bitter, swift and sure; it stung deep in her belly, a feeling of defeat and personal failure that she hadn't felt since she was 17 years old and found herself standing solidly in eleventh place. The tears rushed to her eyes and she clung desperately to Jesse's words, the soft and reassuring "Hey, maybe next year, Rach. Stupid judges."

But it was a curious thing, too, to discover another feeling amidst the agony of defeat, something that tickled at the base of her spine like a cold drop of water, the first from a new shower. Rachel took a deep breath and invited it, a welcoming, comforting feeling.

Relief.

She'd worn pink at the Golden Globes, a shimmering wave of off the shoulder cotton candy; the skirt swished as she'd mounted the steps to make her acceptance speech. Jesse had slid into the aisle to allow her to pass, and he'd remained standing in the aisle, waiting and smiling at her as she spoke.

She'd had the speech ready since she was ten. It had been modified just a year ago.

"Wow, this is such an honor, such an _expected_ honor." The audience had laughed right on cue. "I would first and foremost like to thank Barbra Streisand; if it wasn't for her impeccable acting and singing abilities and my desire to be exactly like her in every way possible, even to the nose—" More laughter, and Rachel beamed. "—I would not be where I am today. I also wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the amazing cast and crew of Higher Ground, from the top billed actor – maybe now my name can come first in my next movie—to the people who cater to my vegan whims, literally." She looked out and saw Jesse still standing there.

"To my daddies and to the people who support me every day, even the 'little ones,'" Rachel's smile grew wider as she air-quoted with one hand, "loving me no matter what and helping me to never forget I was once an obnoxious girl with a big mouth living in Ohio, I love you, so much. This is for you."

_And to everyone who ever said I'd never make it_, she'd added silently as she was escorted backstage, _you can suck it._

The best part of the Oscars, besides winning, Rachel thought, was the Vanity Fair after-party. And what was even better was actually being a _guest_ at the Vanity Fair after party. Still, she was tired, and ready to go home, so she was glad that it was in the plans for her and Jesse to make an early exit. But he handed her a glass of red wine and it burned on the way down her throat as slowly they made their way through the crowds, hand in hand. Greetings, pleasantries, all were exchanged; air kisses and half-hugs, and Rachel laughed when she saw the best actress winner walking barefoot with her shoes in her hand.

"These things might be 2 thousand bucks," she called to Rachel, "but they're also murder."

In the end, ordinary people with big egos and sometimes bigger bank accounts. Sore feet and a little too much to drink.

One of the rags was calling to her, a young lady and her date at his side.

"Showtime," Jesse murmured into her ear, his smile matching Rachel's, and they walked over.

"Ted!" she greeted him, accepting his kiss on her cheek. "And here I thought you'd given up these parties."

"They always call me back in," he laughed. He was chubby, balding, fifties-style black glasses pushed up his nose, the collar of his tux loosened and sweaty.

"Rachel Berry, Quinn Fabray," he introduced, indicating his companion. "Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry."

"You look beautiful," she said, and they pressed both the left and the right cheeks together quickly as Rachel said thank you.

"So I was just standing here with this lovely little lady, and she told me that she used to work with you."

"Oh?" Rachel said, turning to her with a smile.

She was thin, dainty and pale with a Grace Kelly-back-from-the-dead face and blonde hair held with a clasp into a bun at the nape of her neck. Delicate diamond earrings dangled against otherwise undecorated skin; the smooth cream color of her dress seemed to compliment the growing flush on high cheekbones. Her eyelashes seemed to go on forever as she lowered her gaze, and then looked back up at Rachel with striking hazel eyes.

"We didn't technically work together," Quinn pointed out. "I was an extra on Last Night in Vegas."

"Oh, my gosh, really?" Rachel said, hand held to her chest as she laughed. "Well, it certainly is a small world, isn't it?"

"It is, it really is," Quinn agreed, before glancing around at the party. "And now look at me, from extra to cheering on my Antigone crew."

"That was an excellent, excellent movie," Rachel said, nodding warmly to Quinn's date, whom she recognized as one of its stars. "You should be so proud to be part of it."

"Oh, I am," Quinn said, graceful, perfectly manicured fingers twisting a silver band.

There were more people to see, more networking to do; Rachel said a polite goodbye to Quinn and kept Jesse close to her side as they made their rounds to the various tables. Congratulations were given, contact information exchanged, and what was supposed to be an early exit suddenly ended up being an hour long conversation with a writer desperate to have Rachel play his lead character.

She wanted to be back on Broadway, the stage was calling her; but right now Los Angeles was home. Los Angeles was where she needed to be.

"Do you want me to walk you to the door?" Jesse asked her quietly as he navigated the night-lit streets towards her apartment.

Rachel rested against the passenger seat and shook her head. "I think tonight's been enough."

"Tired already, Miss Diva?" Jesse teased lightly, but he shot a concerned glance her way and she smiled to reassure him.

"Such is the life of a star, Mr. St. James. What are your plans for the rest of the evening?"

His concern turned to a grin. "I've got someone over to work on the lighting."

"That is such a bad way of putting it, couldn't you think of something else?"

He shrugged. "The words I would use haven't been approved by the editors."

Rachel reached out and patted his knee. "I know."

Jesse covered her hand with his. "You should've won."

"I know," Rachel said again.

"Tell him I said hi," she added as Jesse pulled up in front of her apartment and stopped the car.

Rachel could see that a light had been left on in the kitchen, and she smiled, feeling everything slough away little by little. Now she would be able to kick off her shoes. Take off the makeup and wash the hairspray out. Slip into her pajamas and enjoy…

Enjoy _home_.

The key was solid with a click in the lock; Rachel stepped inside and shut the door behind her. The light from the kitchen was just enough to illuminate the shape in the foyer, to reflect off delicate diamond earrings, off cream-colored fabric, pooled around the girl that knelt, Rachel knew, on a pillow.

Waiting for her.

Waiting with her head down, her hands tucked behind her back. Waiting with quiet, even breaths.

Rachel reached out, reached down, gently tugging off a clasp and watching as blonde hair cascaded over bare shoulders.

The girl sighed, relieved, a gentle sound that echoed in the emptiness.

"That's better, isn't it, little one?" Rachel said, her fingers trailing through the golden strands.

The girl looked up, and hazel eyes met Rachel's tender brown ones.

"Welcome home, Mistress," Quinn said.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This fic will be a little bit of a departure from my others, in that I'm going to be exploring more of the kink side of D/s, as well as the emotional side. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

"Up," Rachel demanded, and her brow furrowed when Quinn wavered as she rose to her feet. Rachel put her hands around the young woman's waist, steadying her.

"How long have you been kneeling?"

Quinn looked off to the side. "About 45 minutes."

"_What_?" Rachel snapped her fingers at the couch. "Sit. Now."

She waited until Quinn had crossed the few feet to the couch and sat, then Rachel sat next to her and lifted Quinn's feet into her lap, massaging her girlfriend's legs and checking them over carefully.

"You know I don't like it when you kneel for that long, pet."

"Yes, Mistress, but I wanted to."

"And do you always do exactly what you want?" Rachel answered with a knowing look.

"Only when I do you." Quinn's eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Hey!" She pinched Quinn's thigh playfully, though hard enough for Quinn to wince. Yet Rachel was smiling, and she did what she'd been wanting to do ever since the night began: she relaxed against the couch and pulled Quinn into her arms.

It had been two years, and still Quinn melted into Rachel the same way she had that first day on set. Rachel was very touchy, inclined to announce "I'm going to hug you now!" to just about anyone. Except Quinn Fabray. She'd shown up in the cafeteria on the set of Last Night in Vegas, looking like a demure schoolgirl in a sundress and cardigan, nervously searching the array of food. Rachel had been making her own selections from the meager vegan choices and had turned just in time to see Quinn's plate tumble from her and land on the floor, Quinn's face contorting in embarrassment.

"Whoops!" Rachel had said, setting her own plate on one of the tables and moving to Quinn, who was knelt on the floor trying to pick the food up with napkins. "Here, let me help."

"This is like my worst high school nightmare," Quinn muttered, giving Rachel a grateful smile. "Except I'm not naked and oh my god did I just say that?"

"Did you often show up naked to school?" Rachel teased, one eyebrow lifted as she watched Quinn's ears flush pink.

"Not on the first day, usually," Quinn remarked, and Rachel couldn't help but laugh.

She threw away the napkins then rose to her feet, leaning down and offering Quinn her hands, pulling the girl up effortlessly.

"Thank you," Quinn said, looking at her shyly now.

"Oh, anytime," Rachel played it off. She reached for her plate, ready to go sit down and eat before her next scenes, but the girl's voice had stopped her.

"You're Rachel Berry."

She nodded in surprise. "I am. And you are?"

"Quinn Fabray," the girl said, beginning to fill up another plate. She offered Rachel a smile. "I have your album. And the soundtrack to Brand New Story."

At that point, Rachel had been beaming. Fans. She loved fans. And this one, with hazel eyes and a bone structure to die for, well.

They'd had lunch together, and Rachel had ended it by impulsively hugging Quinn Fabray, who had hesitated for the merest of seconds before tucking herself into Rachel like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They'd had lunch together every day after that.

They shared their first kiss on the last day of filming.

And now Quinn sat curled up against Rachel, tucking herself into Rachel's neck and murmuring, "Missed you tonight."

"I missed you too, baby," Rachel said, squeezing Quinn close. "You looked so beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you, Mistress," Quinn said with a kiss.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, pet."

"I'll try to remember that when I'm over your lap."

"No doubt you will," Rachel snorted, running her fingers through Quinn's hair. "You sure you're all right, little one? I don't want you kneeling for that long again."

"No Mistress, I'm sorry. But I'm fine, really."

"And you've eaten?"

"Yes, Mistress, I had dinner at home before I left."

Home for Quinn was technically the small apartment on the other side of town from Rachel's, but she very rarely spent her time there. Rachel still wasn't happy that Quinn had to use the back entrance, shadowed by a little-used alley, but Quinn promised that everything else was worth it. Rachel only hoped it was true.

Quinn stretched out on the couch with a yawn, and Rachel shook her head, smiling. Give the girl another five minutes and she'd be sound asleep.

"Up," Rachel said again, and simply looked at Quinn when the girl whined, but nevertheless rose to her feet. Rachel got up herself, leaving Quinn to start up the stairs towards her bedroom.

"Strip," she said, and she knew without looking that Quinn would do as she asked, and indeed in seconds she began to hear the rustling of Quinn's dress being shed.

"Are we playing tonight, Mistress?"

Rachel glanced to her left, at a door that remained locked, at the rug that held the key underneath. They'd had no time together today, and she'd be lying if she said that Quinn in that dress wasn't really, really hot. She'd love to take Quinn inside and make use of so many things that were in the closet. Things that could be bound against the wall.

She could bind Quinn against the wall, Rachel thought with a wicked grin.

But she shook her head and moved into her bedroom, bypassing the bed as well in favor of the bathroom. Only then did she look back at Quinn and see that her girl was completely naked, her clothes now folded up and resting on a chair off to the left.

"Bath time," Rachel said, her chin tilting towards the old-fashioned, claw foot tub up against the wall in the bathroom, and she smiled, seeing Quinn's eyes light up.

"Together, please?"

"Come here." Quinn obeyed immediately and Rachel hugged Quinn to her. She ran her hands over the smooth plane of Quinn's back, ending at the round firmness of her ass and holding Quinn close.

"Together," Rachel said with a kiss, then pulled away from Quinn to lean down and start the water, adjusting the temperature before she plugged the tub. Straightening up she turned back to Quinn and nodded.

"All right then, I think it's time for both of us to be naked, don't you?"

"Oh, I really do," Quinn said, making quick work of the zipper at Rachel's back, and soon Rachel's dress joined Quinn's folded on the chair, and Rachel was adding bubble bath to the tub.

"In you go, angel."

Quinn settled into the tub with a happy sigh, and Rachel quickly climbed in opposite her, shivering as the cold of the tub met her back, but the water was warm and she closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the wall behind her.

"Are you tired, my love?" Quinn asked quietly, reaching for Rachel's hand under the water.

Rachel linked their hands together and squeezed, still not opening her eyes.

She was bone-tired, and Quinn knew it. Knew it because this was their nightly ritual after events like this, a ritual that they both knew was more for Rachel than Quinn. It was more than just the shedding of her clothes and washing off makeup. She could relax in a bath and be just Rachel Berry from Lima, Ohio, finally letting herself be alone with the person she loved.

Not Jesse St. James, as the world knew and expected.

No, for the last 2 years Rachel had been in love with Quinn Fabray.

And for the last year and a half, Rachel had pretended to barely know her.

"I'll be all right," Rachel said, shifting a little when Quinn's hand released hers, and Quinn began to wash her, gently.

"You work too hard, Mistress."

"You always say that."

"And you always say 'such is the life of an actress, little one,'" Quinn reminded her softly, and Rachel grinned wryly.

"It never ends," she said.

"It ought to."

"Mm," Rachel hummed, finally opening her eyes and looking at Quinn sitting across from her. "One of these days, baby."

"You should've won," Quinn said then, changing the subject, though not necessarily to a happier one, and Rachel made a face.

"Believe it or not," she said, "I knew I wouldn't win."

"What?" Quinn said, the washcloth faltering for a moment before she resumed bathing her mistress. "Has the great Rachel Berry admitted defeat?"

"Watch it, you," Rachel nudged Quinn with her toe and the other woman giggled. She shrugged. "Eliza's team is much better, at least this time."

So much effort, Rachel thought to herself with a sigh. So many interviews, public appearances, pictures. And for once, it hadn't paid off. It should have made her feel relieved, because maybe, just maybe, things could slow down now and Rachel could breathe.

But a text message from her agent in the middle of the Vanity Fair party had ended that hope.

"Well, you can relax tonight, Mistress," Quinn said, and leaned forward to brush a kiss against Rachel's lips.

"What would I do without you?" Rachel mused, running a hand through Quinn's golden blonde hair and watching as the tresses grow limp and darker from the water.

"Not take care of yourself half as well as I make sure you do now," Quinn pointed out, and Rachel was inclined to agree.

Rachel would like to have said that things between her and Quinn had happened quite easily, that both of them fell into their roles with little to no drama. But, well, she was Rachel Berry, and drama had been her middle name ever since she was four years old. She was a small-town girl with big dreams and an even bigger attitude, but Quinn Fabray was Los Angeles born and bred and had had little to no patience with Rachel's particular form of diva, no matter how much of a fan she'd been before. Still, the epic clashes during the day had led to even more epic sex when the sun went down.

And the night Rachel had pulled out the handcuffs, Quinn had fastened a pair of glinting eyes on them… and licked her lips.

What had started out as dominance in the bedroom soon led to a surprising change in Rachel Berry, outside of the bedroom. She was still dominating, still used to having her way… and suddenly, she was adapting to having her way on someone else's terms. Little demands made of Quinn soon morphed into an agreement drawn up in writing, with Quinn laying out exactly what power she'd let Rachel have.

And Rachel realized that she wouldn't have it any other way.

It had taken Rachel only to the age of sixteen to realize that she was bisexual, but it wasn't until she began dating Quinn that she discovered just how much she liked the lifestyle that they embarked on together. Oh sure, there had been porn watched on her computer while she was alone in her bedroom with the door locked to keep nosy fathers out, and she'd devoured several websites devoted to BDSM. Because Rachel Berry was nothing but thorough in her research. Even if she fooled herself into thinking that it was for a "potential future role."

But it wasn't until Quinn that Rachel understood just what hearing someone call her Mistress would do to her. It wasn't until Quinn that Rachel truly knew the power of calling someone "little one" while they looked up at you from their knees.

"You are quite right about that, as usual," Rachel said to Quinn, then motioned for the young woman to come to her.

Quinn settled herself between Rachel's legs, her back to her mistress, and groaned softly when Rachel brought the washcloth up to her skin and began washing her.

"That feels wonderful, thank you, Mistress," Quinn whispered, and Rachel gently pressed her lips to the base of her pet's neck.

There was no collar; Quinn hadn't wanted one, preferring some less conventional ways of showing her submission to Rachel. She wore necklaces and rings that they had picked out together, things that had specific meaning to them; they both loved coming up with different ways to acknowledge their relationship in public without anyone ever knowing.

Rachel took a sort of delicious glee in some of their methods, such as the nipple clamps that Quinn hated but that would never be seen under the cardigans Quinn favored. Or Rachel denying Quinn underwear underneath the flowing skirt she wore to a concert. Quinn always said that Rachel could be absolutely devious if she wanted, and Rachel indulged that side of herself as often as she pleased.

But more often than not, it was the simpler ways that they established their relationship that they loved the most, ways that only people who knew what they were looking for would be able to find. And Rachel had made sure that hardly no one would know what to look for. Even Jesse. Things like Quinn lowering her eyes in deference, when she saw Rachel in public. A surreptitious text message sent during a dinner. Meeting in a stall with the bathroom door locked, during intermission.

Quinn had come in thirty seconds, her teeth leaving a mark on Rachel's shoulder as she bucked against her fingers. That had been a fun night, even if neither of them remembered anything about the show.

More than once they'd nearly gotten caught, but that had added to the thrill of it, the romance of having a secret that no one else could have ever dreamed of. Rachel knew some suspected; there were bloggers on the internet who might as well have a career with the FBI. They analyzed everything, and so Rachel's team had ramped certain things up, made sure she'd toned certain things down, and now both she and Quinn were feeling the weight of it.

"After our bath we'll fix us some hot chocolate and curl up to sleep, what do you think about that, little one?" Rachel asked.

"I think that's wonderful. And tomorrow we can sleep in."

Rachel stayed quiet, her heart sinking. She always hated this. It always made her feel so guilty, even though Quinn knew more than anyone what she went through on a daily basis, and how much it affected her. But only Rachel also knew how much it affected Quinn, and every time she had to do something that she knew would hurt Quinn, it made her want to curl around the young woman and whisk her away to some foreign country where no one had ever heard of either of them.

"Mistress?" Quinn said. Her voice was small, as if she knew the inevitability of what Rachel was going to say.

"They want pictures."

"Oh."

Having finished bathing her, Rachel tightened her arm around Quinn's waist, pulling the girl against her chest. "They want it to look as if Jesse spent the night here."

"Oh."

Rachel kissed Quinn's neck gently, just below her ear, and Quinn sighed. Rachel smiled, kissing her again. "So Jesse will be here early in the morning," Rachel explained, continuing to press her lips along Quinn's skin as she spoke. "And we'll take the pictures while you sleep. Probably have breakfast somewhere. Then I'll come back home to you."

"Promise?" Quinn murmured, arching her neck to give Rachel more access.

"Promise," Rachel affirmed, slipping her hands up from Quinn's waist to cup her breasts.

They didn't have to play, she thought, tweaking Quinn's nipples and grinning in triumph at the moan it elicited, but there was no reason why she couldn't at least have a little fun.

"You looked so hot tonight," Rachel said, and Quinn chuckled. Rachel knew that her eyes would be closed, her mouth open a little as she concentrated on Rachel's fingers teasing her skin.

"Only tonight?"

Rachel pinched her nipples, hard, and Quinn hissed. "Every night, you little brat," she reminded her, then nuzzled her neck.

"My beautiful, hot little girl," Rachel said, her tongue stroking a line from Quinn's jaw to her shoulder, and Quinn shivered.

"Yours, Mistress…"

"Hands and feet on the tub," Rachel commanded, and in an instant Quinn had obeyed, her hands gripping the edges of the bathtub while her feet draped over, spreading her wide.

"Hmm," Rachel said, surveying the sight and licking her lips. "You look absolutely naughty, Quinn Fabray." She slipped her hand down between Quinn's legs, but just stayed there, not moving or enticing.

"I almost think you want something."

"I do," Quinn breathed, undulating her hips, and Rachel slapped her thigh.

"No, Quinn."

Quinn's motion stilled. "I'm sorry, Mistress."

"You know the rules."

"Yes, Mistress."

Rachel flicked her finger over Quinn for good measure; Quinn gasped but stayed motionless, and Rachel nodded in satisfaction.

"That's my good girl. Now… what is it you want?"

"Touch me," Quinn pleaded. "Please, Mistress."

"Hmm." Rachel pretended to consider it, but her hand was already making soft, slow circles over Quinn's skin, feeling the other woman's wetness even under the water. "And why should I do that?"

"Because I – mmm – I've been a good girl," Quinn panted. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the tub, and Rachel wanted to laugh as she struggled not to rub against her hand. "I've been a good girl, Mistress, and I really – oh! – I really want it, please…"

"I do love it when you beg," Rachel said, biting Quinn's ear, increasing the speed of her hand. She really did, something that she and Quinn had discovered fairly quickly in their sexual relationship. And Quinn, the brat she was knew quite well how to work it to her benefit.

"But I'm not sure you've been such a good girl."

That was a blatant lie, but Rachel loved teasing almost as much as she loved Quinn. Still, there was never a submissive that had been more perfect than Quinn Fabray. Perfect for Rachel, anyway. Rachel liked to remind Quinn that there was barely a day when Quinn didn't need to sit on pillows for some reason or other, but both of them knew that if there was one thing out of many that Quinn was good at, it was being Rachel's little one. Rachel knew that Quinn had had her issues with self-esteem; she was the product of an L.A. culture that forced her to get a nose job at the age of thirteen just to feel worthy, and that at times Quinn still thought she was little more than a pretty face. It made Rachel angry, because Quinn was and always would be the prettiest girl Rachel Berry had ever met, and she never let an opportunity pass to tell her so.

And there was never a person who slipped to her knees so effortlessly, who served her so wholly, as Quinn. It didn't matter that she didn't wear a collar; she was bound to Rachel with everything she had, by her own choice, and even after a spanking, when she was draped over Rachel's lap wincing while Rachel smoothed cream on her reddened skin, there was nothing from Quinn's lips but "I love you."

More than once the depth of Quinn's love and devotion had reduced Rachel to tears, and promises that she would return the devotion, a hundredfold, always.

"I have been," Quinn whined, and Rachel rolled her eyes, but indulged her. "Mistress please, I've been good, I promise."

"If you say so," Rachel finally relented, pressing her hand into Quinn, the heel of her hand grinding against the sensitive bundle of nerves at her center. She dipped her head low, pressing her lips to Quinn's ear.

"Ride," was all she said.

Water splashed over the edges of the tub as Quinn's hips rose and fell, spilling onto the tile and making a mess they'd have to clean up later. Quinn's breath came in ragged gasps, little hitches and moans as she threw her head back, her neck open and inviting for Rachel's nips and sucks as she moved her hand against Quinn.

There was something so vulnerable about it, Rachel thought to herself even as the heat from Quinn's body rolled off her in waves, causing Rachel's hair to stick against her forehead, making it a little difficult to see. There was something so special, so revealing about Quinn laying herself bare to _Rachel_, to Rachel and no one else. There had been others, Rachel knew, most notably a stupid boy with even dumber hair who had used Quinn until he'd had enough and then basically tossed her out with the garbage. But Quinn had told her none of it had ever been like Rachel, no one had ever loved her the way Rachel did, and Rachel knew it was true.

They might clash, they might have fights that would make any other person think they hated each other. But as fiercely as they fought, their love was even stronger.

"Mistress…" Quinn gasped. "Misstress… god, please!"

"Please, what?" Rachel asked, even though she knew what the question would be. A sly grin slipped onto her face, and she stopped the movement of her hand.

Quinn growled in frustration, slapping the tub with her hand. "Come on!"

Rachel quirked an eyebrow. "I suggest you watch your tone if you wish this to continue," she said sternly, and Quinn immediately wilted in her arms, though she continued to grind herself into Rachel's hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding near tears in her frustration. "I just want… I want…"

"What, baby?" Rachel murmured, deciding the time for torture was enough, and she rolled Quinn's skin in between two of her fingers.

"I want you inside," Quinn requested plaintively. "Please?"

Rachel shook her head. "No, little one," she decided. "I think I can make you come just as hard this way, what do you think?"

Her hand resumed its ministrations between Quinn's legs, and Quinn nodded so vigorously it made Rachel giggled.

"Y-yes, yes, please, oh! Please, Mistress…."

"Hold on, pet," Rachel said, kissing Quinn's neck as her other hand teased her nipples again. Quinn gripped the tub again, her legs spreading even farther apart when Rachel increased her speed. "That's it, my girl. My _naughty_ girl, aren't you, Quinn?"

"Yes, god," Quinn moaned, rolling her hips into Rachel. "Yours, only yours, I—" Suddenly her breath caught, and Quinn's legs clenched against the tub.

"Quinn," Rachel warned, but her hand didn't let up; she rubbed Quinn harder as she bit her lip, waiting for the words she wanted to hear.

And when she did speak, Quinn's voice was clear, strong… and desperate. "Mistress, may I please come for you?"

She thought about drawing it out. She was good at it, Rachel knew; she could slow her hand until there was barely even movement, making Quinn stop her hips as Rachel willed each touch to be feather-light, teasing, _maddening_. Or she could deny it, making Quinn get out of the tub and dress herself, wet and wanting, reminding her who was in control. Or, Rachel thought, she could do something she very rarely did: work Quinn up to one orgasm. Then another. Then another, until Quinn was begging for mercy and crying that she couldn't possibly go through another… until Rachel made sure she did. But that was more punishment than pleasure and Rachel only used it more to prove a point.

But Quinn _had_ been good, better than probably Rachel ever deserved, and sometimes, she just couldn't believe her luck. But there it was, and she'd be damned if she took (too much) advantage of it.

"Now," Rachel said into Quinn's ear, and Quinn keened as Rachel's index finger flicked her, hard. She held Quinn to her, one arm around her waist as the girl shuddered with the force of her orgasm, then collapsed against Rachel, her head thumping against her collarbone. Rachel winced and almost made a comment, but then Quinn turned on her side and curled into her.

Rachel's eyes widened in shock when she felt tears drip onto her skin.

"What is it, little one?" she asked, running her fingers through Quinn's hair. She felt the panic begin to settle in, wondering if she had done something to hurt the person that was the most precious to her besides her fathers.

"Don't go tomorrow," Quinn whispered. "Please."

Rachel shook her head and kissed the top of Quinn's. "Let's get out of here and get our chocolate."

Quinn nodded, but made no attempt to move. "You're mine," she said, tangling their fingers together and gripping tightly.

Rachel smiled a little, staring at their joined hands. "Yes, baby. I'm yours."


End file.
